Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 74: Secret Enemies
Carver Hawke strolled into Highever House, wondering what was on his mother's mind. He thought he could guess. Charade had made a good impression on the Wulffe family. For that matter, he had, too. They'd had a wonderful time hunting together. Afterward, they had done a bit of shooting, and Charade's skill with a bow had won due praise. Arl Wulffe thought she was a fine girl, and the heir, Rothgar, seemed to agree. Wouldn't it be something if Charade were an Arlessa someday? She'd do well, Carver predicted. Charade had good sense, and deserved better luck in life than she'd had so far.
And that Kendalls fellow had got himself killed. Carver had never met the man to speak to, and so hardly cared one way or the other, but he caught the gossip in the town about Habren Bryland. People were wondering if she was under a curse. A few were even wondering darkly if she was some sort of Black Widow, leading men on to their doom. Very likely Arl Bryland would rope in the pretty boy younger brother, and then the gossips could talk about the girl who had been betrothed to four different men in the course of the year.
The servant showed him upstairs to the parlor his mother used, and he found Mother and the girls already there, solemn as Chantry novices. There was tea, and there were pastries, so it couldn't be too bad. He kissed them properly, chose the biggest and creamiest of the pastries for himself, and then flung himself onto the settee by Bethany.
"My darlings…" his mother began, and stopped. She seemed very nervous. "I've had a letter from your brother…"
Bethany was alarmed. "Is Adam all right?"
"Oh, yes, yes… perfectly all right. He's working terribly hard, of course, but he's doing well, he says. Actually, his letter was a reply to mine. I had written to him, asking his advice on a personal matter, and I decided to call you all together, too, just as soon as I had word from your older brother."
Carver grinned at Charade, and waggled his brows.
This is it! Arlessa Charade…well, Lady Charade, for some years yet, probably…
Bethany held Charade's hand tightly, but Charade herself only lifted a hand in protest, proclaiming her complete ignorance of what her aunt was getting at.
Leandra cleared her throat. "Your brother gives his blessing, and so I thought I should speak to you all immediately, so you can think about this and let me know if you're uncomfortable with it…"
Her voice trailed off again. She blushed.
Bethany asked, "Uncomfortable with what, Mother? What's going on?"
"Well…" Leandra took a sip of her tea, set down her cup, and folded her hands. "The fact is that I have received an offer of marriage." She sensed their lack of comprehension, and added, "For me. Arl Leonas Bryland has asked me to marry him."
"Mother!" Bethany practically shrieked, first startled; then very, very pleased. "What an honor! He's such a nice man!"
Trying to conceal her intense disappointment, Charade smiled and said, "How wonderful!"
Carver's jaw was still hanging. Mother was going to get married again? But…she was old!
She seemed to be happy about it, but Carver couldn't imagine why. She'd be an Arlessa, and that was something she'd like, but to be married, with all that entailed… Surely, at her age, she didn't want to go through all that again… did she?
Leandra was blushing again, and smiling, pleased at the girls' responses. Their patent approval loosened her tongue. "He asked me before Satinalia. He was so very kind and noble in his ideas. He understands that I have no money—"
"We're not beggars!" Carver snapped.
"Of course not, darling. That's not what I meant. But you must understand that ordinarily a man in his position would expect a sizable dowry. Arl Bryland said he was too rich to care about that, and what he wanted was a pleasant companion and friend, someone who could help him with his responsibilities and be kind to his little boys—"
"Oh, I know they'll love you!" Bethany cried.
Leandra had a very odd look on her face. "And…he thinks me quite…beautiful. He said so. He likes my looks and my gentle manners. I think he has been very lonely for a long time. And so have I."
"It sounds like you've already made up your mind," Carver growled.
Leandra looked at him gravely. "I know what I would like to do," she agreed, "but I will do nothing that makes any of you unhappy. However, if you are going to object, you will have to explain exactly why."
Bethany stared at him, exasperated. "Well?"
"It's just…" Carver flailed for a reason. "What if…he's not nice to you?' he managed, sounding lame even to himself.
"Oh, my darling!" Leandra murmured, coming over to put her arms around him and hug him. Even the girls relented.
Bethany crowded in, to rub his back and reassure him. "Arl Bryland is nice to his whole family, and so patient. I know he'll be nice to Mother."
Carver, still at sea with the idea of his mother being married to a man other than his father, wanted to ask, "But what if he expects to have SEX with you?"
But he did not dare. Not surrounded by all these women. He absolutely did not dare. They would probably scream at him and flay him alive. Besides, the Arl was old, too. No doubt it was a non-issue.
"I just want you to be happy," he mumbled, wincing at all the smothering affection.
"I will be," Leandra assured him, bright-eyed. "Think of it! My own home again! And Bethany safer than ever! I know the Arl will be a kind step-father to her, for he always speaks so highly of her. And then, too, I can do so much good in such a position."
"You can do so much good for Adam," Carver grunted. To his annoyance, no one heard the snark, but took his remark at face value and agreed with it and thought it very fine and proper. "Anyway," he added, "you'd better tell Teyrn Cousland about it. You've been staying here as his guest, and Adam's his man. You owe it to him to tell him before it gets out."
"That's so true!" Leandra said, much struck by Carver's good sense. "It would never do for him to think I had done anything behind his back. I shall request a moment of his time as soon as he returns from the Palace today!"
"Oh, Mother!" Bethany sighed happily. "When is the wedding? You'll need a new gown!"
"We thought the second of Haring. Yes, I know, that it's not much time, but it needs to take place before the Landsmeet. I'll certainly order a new gown, but the wedding will be very small and private, with only the immediate family. Lady Habren's wedding is the day before, and of course, that will necessarily be very quiet, too."
Charade and Bethany could not repress their smirks. "I should hope so!" Charade laughed. "The Arl can't very well host two big weddings for her, two months apart!"
"And she already got the wedding presents," Bethany giggled. "And since she hasn't returned them, she'll need to be married to justify them!"
"All right!" Leandra frowned. "That is just the sort of talk that has to stop, right now. Lady Habren suffered a terrible tragedy. Now she's lost Aron Kendalls, and will have to enter into an arranged marriage with a man she's known for all of two days…"
"But a gorgeous man!" Bethany put in, pretending to swoon. Charade punched her lightly, laughing. Carver snorted. He'd seen enough of Habren Bryland to have her pegged as a haughty little minx with an unjustified sense of her own importance.
Leandra did not smile, and Bethany hugged her. "I'm sorry! We won't laugh at awful Habren and her collection of dead suitors. She hasn't been very nice to us, but maybe that's because of everything that happened."
"No doubt," Leandra agreed, mollified. "Let's give her a chance. Think of what she's suffered, after all!"
"I can't believe you're going to marry that pauper!" Habren shrieked. "She's nobody! She's nothing! She married a commoner and lived in a hovel for years! Her daughter's a mage! Everybody knows that!"
Bryland waited for the screaming to stop. It went on for some time, so he used the opportunity to think over his situation. Kane Kendalls had already agreed to marry Habren on the first of Haring, in place of his late brother. Habren was very pleased by that, approving of the younger brother's handsome looks and good manners. Bryland thought those manners rather overdone and even a little vulgar, but the boy seemed willing to learn: far more willing, in fact, than his brother had been.
"I'll send for my little sisters right away!" young Kane had declared. "They should be at the funeral, and then with me. They hate that school, anyway. I know they need an education, but don't they have people to do that at home?"
Bryland had assured him that tutors were to be had, and that his family feeling did him credit. On further, private consideration, Bryland thought that the little girls might be appropriate playfellows for his own boys. It was never too early to teach boys how to behave nicely to the opposite sex.
At any rate, Bryland was certainly determined to wed the woman of his choice, and that marriage would be utterly impossible with Habren still under his roof. There was nothing for it but to accept Kane and give him his brother's inheritance. The two would marry and take up housekeeping at the Arl of Denerim's estate as soon as Kane was confirmed in the arling. The day after Habren's wedding, Bryland would marry Leandra and bring her home—first to his townhouse here in Denerim, and then, after the Landsmeet, to South Reach, so she could get to know his people there. It would be a new epoch in his life, and one he was looking forward to with considerable anticipation. For a short time before the Landsmeet confirmations, Leandra and Habren would be thrown together, but with luck, that would be no more than five or six days. Surely they could all survive that.
After Habren grew tired of screaming, and fell into her usual sulk, Bryland briefly told her how it would be. She would accept Lady Amell, the descendant of an ancient noble Marcher line. She would be polite to her. Habren's other option was that Bryland would not marry, and thus would need Habren to remain at home with him and act as his hostess. She did not care for that idea? No? Then the marriages would take place: first Habren's, and then his on the following day. She would attend that wedding and behave properly. If Habren were rude to the Arlessa of South Reach after their marriage, she would only cause political trouble for herself and her husband, and make herself look ill-bred.
The news of his impending nuptials received a much better welcome in the schoolroom. The boys were thrilled at the idea of a mother of their very own to come and live with them, and also that Bethany would be their sister and live with them, too. And Charade could help them with their archery, since she was so good at it. In fact, they thought it all so wonderful that they did not quite understand why the ladies were not brought home to them that very day. They scampered about the room, accompanied by Killer's excited yips, planning which rooms would be nicest for the girls, and what would be the best wedding presents they could make for their new mother.
Bronwyn warned her Wardens that she wanted them up very early the next morning. If she was going to look into that rumored blood mage hideout, she needed to do it tomorrow. It was the only time before her wedding that was not totally scheduled to the minute. And after her wedding... She sighed, feeling briefly overwhelmed. After the wedding, she knew, she would be busier, if anything. Furthermore, if she waited much longer, the mages might have moved, or they might get wind that they had been discovered.
Carver was bursting with his news, and no one had told him it was a secret, so he sidled up to Bronwyn as they were all turning for the night and whispered, "My mother's getting married! To Arl Bryland!"
Bronwyn did not dash him by telling him she knew all about it, and had been approached to give her permission.
"Really? How wonderful! I hope they'll be extremely happy together."
"I hope so, too." The young, strong-boned face was anxious. "He seems all right, but it's my mother, you know."
"My cousin is a very nice man who loves his family. I know he would never ask a woman to marry him without feeling respect and affection for her." Tactfully, she said nothing about his occasional drinking bouts. Perhaps they would not occur so often, if he had a new interest in life. And then too, he was not one to become quarrelsome when in liquor, but cheerful and loquacious... until he passed out on the floor.
Carver seemed reassured, and Bronwyn patted his back and bade him goodnight.
She did not expect Loghain this evening, as he had a late meeting with some people from Gwaren. Instead, she would have her room to herself, and could turn in early...another reason for going out on the hunt tomorrow. And she was in a mood to enjoy her private little room, since it would not be hers much longer.
In five more days, she would be married, and work was already underway to convert some rooms in the Palace adjoining Loghain's into her own private apartments. Bronwyn had never been one to fuss over housekeeping or worry much about fashion, but it was rather exciting to be asked to choose amongst colors and fabrics for her hangings, to judge if her splendid new bed was comfortable, and to tell the seneschal what furnishings she required. From Highever House, Fergus had sent a wide, low chest of rosewood that had been their mother's. It stood on legs carved to resemble a dragon's, and could serve for seating as well as storage. When Bronwyn opened the chest, her mother's scent suffused the room, recalling things past.
Most probably, she would be the new rooms less than a month. If the Landsmeet granted her and Loghain the throne—as planned—they would be moving into the royal apartments. Therefore, it would be foolish to waste too much time and effort on temporary quarters. However, Bronwyn felt she must make the gesture: first of all, in order not to seem arrogantly overconfident of her election; and second, because she felt it was quite important to keep her role as a Warden separate from her role as Teyrna, and possibly Queen.
As a Teyrna, she needed to choose a personal maid. Bronwyn accepted that this was essential. She certainly had no time to mend her own gowns and clean her own shoes, and without help, her hair would be less than impressive. After some thought, she chose one of the compound maids, Fionn, whom Mistress Rannelly told her was the best at keeping secrets. She was also an excellent seamstress and handy with an iron. Bronwyn would be moving back and forth between her roles, and Fionn would have the flexibility to manage that. As a Warden servant, she had also absorbed some squiring skills, and knew how to serve a lady warrior. Bronwyn knew enough about her own hair to tell the girl what she wanted and how to achieve it.
Fionn was quite pleased at her elevation and increase in pay, and also with the prospect of her own private room, which was a cubbyhole behind Bronwyn's temporary office. It even had a tiny round window, which was a refreshing change from the dark servants' quarters in the Compound's lower levels.
At any rate, Bronwyn would soon being bidding farewell to this nice little room in the Wardens' Compound. In future, the locked desk in the study would do for her administrative work, and she would be in and out every day, keeping contact with her Wardens. After the Landsmeet...if the Archdemon did not make an appearance and throw the world into utter chaos...she would have to plan a campaign against the darkspawn, based on the intelligence her patrols were gathering. She hoped that Danith, at least, would report in this month.
Enjoying the luxury of time to herself, she washed in the plentiful hot water, admiring the rich lather from her new cake of lavender soap. Satinalia had come just in time. She slipped into a fresh nightshift, and then into bed, trying to compose herself for sleep, unsure if she was ready to blow out the bedside candle or not.
She turned her head, looking at the candle...
...and quite abruptly, the candle was a a fire, burning in her heart. She was in the Deep Roads, searching, searching... Tainted hands scrabbled at stone, burrowing a new path for her. She moved on, up the tunnel, and stood on a jagged stone, overlooking a precipitous drop. Red-hot lava flowed sluggishly below her. Above was the high ceiling of a huge cavern. Stalactites glittered, reflecting the fire. She sighed deeply, and the flames of her breath licked at every corner, brightening the darkness to sudden day...
Bronwyn blinked, the light of the single candle dazzling her eyes.
I must have fallen asleep...
Clumsily, she propped herself up on an elbow and blew out the light. The shadows closed around her like soft grey blankets, and she was asleep in a moment.
She opened her eyes to dim grey light. There were faint noises coming from the Wardens' Hall, the usual noises of the servants laying out breakfast. Bronwyn swung her legs off the bed, got up, and dressed quickly. Scout grumbled sleepily and shook himself. Bronwyn opened the door for him, and he trotted off to make his own ablutions.
Had she slept badly? She could not remember awakening in the night, but perhaps her dreams had disturbed her, for she was in a rather sour mood. Her dreams about the darkspawn were so jumbled and distressing that she had no desire to remember them, but something had obviously set her off.
She found the key to her correspondence box, considering having another look at the recent letter from the First Warden. She must compose an answer to him. Not now, though. She must have breakfast and be on her way. Later.
It was truly alarming to remember that without the intervention of Riordan and Fiona, not only would she and Alistair still be the only Fereldan Wardens—at least until Avernus made more of his potion—but that they would have absolutely no idea how to slay the Archdemon. They would not know the central vital role of the Wardens, and it was not beyond the realm of possibility that they could have made the situation even worse than it was. Exposed to the darkspawn, but not yet Joined, their recruits might have contracted Taint and died. Danith would certainly be dead by now. Their resistance to the horde at Ostagar would have been compromised, and perhaps the onslaught would have continued and finally broken the defenses there, sending the darkspawn north in a sea of Tainted murder.
So. The First Warden was not her friend, and certainly no friend to the people of Ferelden. In fact, he was behaving very much like an enemy.
The available information sent them to a shabby building in an unsavory part of South Docks. The building was tallish, but the entrance to the upper levels was accessed by a decrepit staircase. According to the notes, the hideout was on the ground floor. This part of the building had its own door at the center of the front wall. A brief reconnaissance revealed small windows on the right and left sides of the building. Both were shuttered from the inside. There was nothing to do but knock at the door for some time. Then Leliana demanded alms, claiming to be a representative of the Chantry.
"Which I am," she excused herself. "Sort of."
Zevran snorted, already at work on the lock with his high quality set of picks.
The door yielded at last, and was opened carefully, everyone getting out of the way of a possible crossbow bolt from the interior. None came, nor were their any indignant plaints. Only a faint odor of must and decay floated out of the doorway. Bronwyn gave Zevran a nod, and he slid inside, clinging to the shadows.
Because the windows were tightly shuttered, the only illumination was from the fire on the hearth. Bronwyn looked around her, a little mystified. A family lived here, or had until recently.
It was a better house than many commons in Denerim could boast. Yes, it was only one room, but the room was broad and long, occupying the entire ground floor of the building. The walls were dingy, but plastered, and the floor was good oak. An alcove, screened with some old rugs, gave decent privacy to those who used the basin or the tin tub. In the corners at the end of the room there were two beds: a large one to the left, and a small one to the right. On the small bed was a rag doll, and beside it a toy horse.
One could call it a well-kept house, but for the layer of dust over everything. Whoever lived here, lived here no more, but had left everything, including the books, their clothes, and the moldy food on the table. Well...perhaps not everything. They might have had to leave abruptly and travel light, and taken a chest or two with them, but they had left a great many things that most people would wish to keep.
Perhaps they had taken the books they cared for, since in the middle of the far wall one of the two bookcases was completely empty. Zevran frowned, and walked over to examine it. He sneered.
"Sloppy—very sloppy. Very confident, too. See here."
"A door frame!" Leliana said softly.
Bronwyn could make out the lintel easily enough. The empty bookcase concealed the doorway from a casual observer at the front door, and perhaps that was all that was needed.
Anders whispered, "These could be apostates with a child, or a family whose child turned out to have magic. They must be terrified. We can't do anything to hurt them!"
"I can't allow them to hurt us, either," Bronwyn replied. "Desperate people can be dangerous. All right. This is what we're going to do. Mages forward. Stun or paralyze anyone behind the door. That way they won't be damaged and we can talk to them. No, Anders, I won't inform on a magical family. Carver, you'll vouch for me, won't you?"
Carver grinned at Anders. "Love to."
"Toliver and Aveline: move the bookcase away from the doorway as quietly as you possibly can."
"Hey!" Soren objected in an rumbling undertone. "Don't forget the dwarves! We're short, not children!"
"It only takes two to move that bookcase," Bronwyn told him impatiently. "Or would you prefer that I do it all myself?"
The bookcase was moved, and a door revealed. Zevran brushed Bronwyn's hand aside, and pressed lightly on the door. It moved easily, on oiled hinges. The elf raised his brows.
"Not even locked!" he whispered. "Are they mad?"
Leliana peered through the crack. "Not so mad. There is a staircase going down, and traps on the steps."
"Slowly, then," Bronwyn mouthed.
Leliana slipped through the door and bent to disarm the first trap. Then she managed the second: difficult work in the shadows. The last trap was further down, and a step squeaked loudly.
"Who's there?" demanded a gruff, foreign voice.
"Move!" Bronwyn hissed. Leliana pressed herself flat to the wall, while Anders dashed down the stairs, followed by Jowan and Morrigan. Grunts, curses, and flashes of light followed. Bronwyn shouldered her way in front of Carver and galloped down after her friends.
No terrified apostate family here. Instead, she saw a Qunari mercenary in heavy plate armor, a man-at-arms in light plate, and two archers. They were all bent on killing trespassers. A mage in exotic robes was clearly the leader.
"'Take him alive!" she ordered. Jowan avoided a hex, and managed to paralyze the mage, surrounding his captive with glittering light. In the close quarters of the cellar, it was difficult for the mages to cast without harming their friends. It was work for knife and hand-axe. Morrigan managed to freeze the big Qunari, and he was hacked down. The dwarves charged in at the archers, and Bronwyn hardly blamed them for dealing summarily with them. The man in light plate was a good swordsman, but there was no room for fine fencing here. He went down under a pile of Wardens, and when he grabbed at Leliana, trying to snap her neck. Cathair slit his throat.
That left only the mage alive. Bronwyn looked him over, puzzled.
"Tevinter," Anders informed her. "Those are Tevinter robes." His face fell into uneasy lines. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, they really had stumbled on a nest of blood mages.
The mage stirred, and bared his teeth like a dog. He twitched his fingers toward his fallen staff, and Aveline trod on it hard. He glared at them.
"Fools. This is the last house you should think of robbing."
"We aren't robbers," Brownyn said, frowning at him. "Who are you?"
The mage saw Scout and sneered. "I don't answer to dog-fucking Fereldans. Get out of here and you might live to see another day."
"Bastard." Toliver touched the tip of his sword to the man's neck, but Bronwyn restrained him.
"You're Tevinter?" she asked. "You're a long way from home. What are you doing in Ferelden?"
"Minding my own business!" he shot back. "What are you doing...Warden? he said, jerking his head at her griffon armor. Suddenly he snorted a laugh. "You're the 'Girl Warden,' aren't you?' his tone slurring contemptuously over the title. "A puffed-up little barbarian princess. They'd dig deep in their pockets for you in Minathrous." He looked at her a little closer, "or they would have before your face was spoiled. Pity, that. Turn around and walk out of here and go fight some darkspawn. You'd have a better chance against them."
"Am I totally confused?" Zevran asked, with an air of wonder. "Do I not see a unarmed man lying on the floor, with eleven...no..." he bowed courteously to Scout, "twelve warriors surrounding him? It seems to me, my friend, that it is you who are at the disadvantage."
"Well," the Tevinter chuckled, licking at a trickle of blood from his lip, "that's what you think... Na via lerno victoria!"
Darkness enveloped them: a choking, nauseating darkness. Disoriented by sudden blindness and—yes, deafness, too, Bronwyn groped out for her smirking enemy, stumbling, She tripped and fell, sprawling on the floor, hitting her chin. She thrashed there, hardly sure what was up or down, almost helpless.
Abruptly, the hex dissipated, leaving a ringing in her ears.
"Stone preserve us!" snarled Hakan from somewhere behind her. "That was sodding scary! What happened?"
Soren chuckled rather nastily. "Dog got the bastard."
Bronwyn sat up and Scout trotted over to her, whining in concern. Two yards away the savaged body of the mage lay torn and bloody on the floor. Scout licked his chops, and sat down to scratch an ear.
Morrigan dusted off her robes, and regarded Scout with new respect. "A dog does not need eyes or ears, as long as he has his nose. That was very clever, Mongrel. I salute you."
Scout barked back cheerfully.
"'Tis a lesson to us indeed," Morrigan continued, with a meaning look to Anders. "There are times when a different shape can overcome temporary incapacity. I should have thought to change. A lesson I shall not soon forget!"
Bronwyn got to her feet, rubbing her bruised chin. She stared down at the dead mage, furious and rather embarrassed.
"We'll still need a prisoner. I want to know how this place came to be."
"Easier said than done, Bronwyn," Jowan said, determined not to play by the rules anymore. "If we come across any other mages as powerful as this one, we'll have to take them down very quickly, and keep them disabled."
After the rest of the party picked themselves off the floor and satisfied their anger by stabbing the mage's corpse a few times, Bronwyn told them to pull themselves together. She did so herself with some effort, looking about her.
It was a well-equipped guard room, complete with armor and weapon stands, gaming tables, chairs, benches, and water barrel. The room was well-lit with sconces set into the wall.
"A Qunari mercenary," Soren said, kicking at the huge body. "They don't come cheap."
"They're all first class, and that's a fact," Toliver agreed. "Best quality armor and weapons."
"And a hired Blood Mage," Aveline said with distaste.
"Since this is a guard room, with such expensive guards," Bronwyn mused, "clearly they were guarding something of value." In the far wall was another door. She gestured at it. "Something behind this."
Zevran and Leliana were systematically searching the bodies, with the aid of Toliver, The dwarves joined in, obviously willing to do their bit along those lines.
"The mage had a key," Zevran said, holding the object up to the light. Bronwyn nodded, and Zevran went to the door and unlocked it as quietly as possible. He pushed the door open and stood on guard, flicking a glance into the interior.
It was empty. Another large, well-lit stone room was revealed: the walls plastered, the ceiling coffered with black oak. Everything about this secret cellar spoke of boundless coin, first for the materials, and then for the workers who would build this and never disclose its existence. The room was packed with barrels and crates of supplies: foodstuffs, blankets, fine linen, dried herbs, and weapons. One crate was marked in bold letters, which Bronwyn could not translate.
"Arcanum," Anders said, "It says, 'fragile,'"
"'Fragile?'" Toliver quoted, "Does that mean, like...'fragile?'"
Morrigan snorted. Bronwyn glared at her, "Yes, Toliver, it does indeed mean 'fragile' in the King's Tongue."
"Let's see what's inside," Jowan suggested. The crate was pried open, and wads of wool padding set aside.
"Glass tubes?" Soren sneered. "And empty! Those aren't big enough to hold a proper drink!"
"These aren't meant to be drunk from," Anders said absently. "...I hope. Look...there are some corks packed in here, too. These are phylactery vials." He explained, "For holding blood. As in for doing blood magic," he clarified for the dwarves. "You could fill them with other potions, I suppose, but these definitely look like phylactery vials to me."
"Let's move on," ordered Bronwyn. "I think at this point we can safely say this is not the hiding place of a harmless family of apostates."
Carver grumbled, "My family of apostates never had this kind of coin!"
Another door, another storage room. There were even rugs on the stone floor: ragged, but better than most common homes could afford. Some had gone to great expense to equip this...what to call it? Hideout? Base? And it did not look new. This had all been here for years.
The next door opened into a kitchen, with half a dozen guards, also wearing fine armor and carrying excellent weapons. Hesitation would be fatal. The Wardens stormed in and overcame the surprised men fairly quickly.
Leading off the room was a big dining hall, partly on the same level, and partly on a mezzanine above. Archers, a pair of mages, another Qunari, and more men-at-arms came running around the corner. One of the men shouted to another who ran for a door behind him.
"Don't let him get away!" cried Anders. "He'll give the alarm!" He shot off an ice spell, catching the man in flight.
That didn't sound good. 'Giving the alarm' implied that there were more guards here: a lot more. And it was impossible to fight this many men without making considerable noise. Luckily, the rooms were so large that Carver had plenty of fighting room to swing Yusaris. Scout knocked a guard down and seized him by the throat.
"Try to take a prisoner!" Bronwyn shouted. "Who are these people?"
But the strangers had no intention of doing anything but fighting to the death. They were superb professionals, and true to their code. Or they were superb professionals, completely in thrall to blood mages. Either way, they were formidable. The Wardens took them down, but with wounds to themselves. They paused to catch their breath and then to look in wonder at the place. Anders and Jowan set about casting healing spells.
The room they were in was nearly as big as the Wardens' Hall, though the coffered roof was much lower. Long tables were laden with haunches of beef, with baked and smoked fish, with rich meat pies, with fine white bread, and with platters of baked red apples. Pewter cups were set on the table, and pitchers of chilled wine sweated with coolness.
"Hunh!" Toliver grunted. "Maybe I should have joined this outfit!" Aveline boxed his ear with her gauntlet. "Just sayin'," he mumbled, by way of apology.
"Oil paintings! Fine carpets!" Jowan marveled. "Chandeliers!" He looked closer at a statue in a corner. "A Tataroki!" He moved on to a spindly, bat-winged, six-armed image. "An Ultius," he said, and then translated, "A spirit of vengeance. Someone here is deeply into the occult."
"Of the bad sort," Anders added.
"Takes all kinds," Hakan said, more interested in the food on the table. "Almost enough here for the whole Legion!"
"Looks good," Soren said, sniffing at a pitcher. "Not poisoned, is it?"
"We're in the middle of a battle," Bronwyn explained kindly. "And you had a very good breakfast."
"That's true," the dwarf replied, unabashed, "but I vote that when we clear out this lot we come back here and collect some rightful plunder."
"We'll see," Bronwyn said repressively, and then could have headslapped herself for sounding exactly like her mother. "Come on."
"Let's be careful," Jowan advised, "Surely somebody's heard us coming by now."
The next door opened on a broad corridor. Several doors led off of it. Bronwyn really did not want to get boxed in and surrounded. She gestured to Jowan and Zevran to check out the door to their left, which was closest. Zevran opened the door and the two men stepped a little inside. There was no sound of resistance. In a moment, the two were back, and Zevran was breathing in her ear.
"Another storeroom...and full of riches! Silk carpets, Antivan wine jars, fine robes, golden girdles!"
Smugglers? This theory made some sense. Smugglers running a well-financed operation might well afford this kind of set-up, with the accordingly fine guards. But something did not quite fit...
A dark head showed briefly in the doorway ahead and to the right, and spellfire flashed from a staff.
Bolts of sickening, crackling pain rattled Bronwyn's bones. Anders darted out, running low, and fired a spell back at the mage, disrupting the hex. Bronwyn stumbled back, and abruptly vomited on the meticulously clean floor. A handful of mages and soldiers rushed them, and were knocked down by Jowan's shouted curse. The door at the end of the corridor crashed open, and an archer shot at them. Cathair snarled something in Dalish, and put an arrow in the man's eye.
"Watch out! A trap!" cried Leliana, as the Wardens surged forward, engaging the defenders, who were struggling up from the floor.
Bronwyn shoved herself forward, shouting. "A prisoner! I need a prisoner!"
Carver found himself facing a big man, with a handsome, intelligent, foreign face. He surprised his foe by slamming his sword pommel into the man's jaw, and then kicking his legs out from under him.
"Get him!" Carver yelled to Hakan, "He looks important!"
Hakan kicked the man in the head and rolled him up against the wall, out of the way. Then the dwarf roared in pain, caught by a blood mage's spell that heated his blood. He clutched at his head, wailing in agony.
Jowan, firing spells left and right, felt himself still brimful of power.
Is this effect of the new Joining potion? he wondered.
A glancing blow laid his forearm open. Impatient, he chose the line of least resistance. He let the blood trickle into his hand…felt the force gather and build…
The mage crouched behind the door shrieked as his head exploded. An echoing silence followed.
There were a lot of injuries, and everyone was fairly unsteady. Anders peered behind the door to the right-hand room. "Maker's breath, Jowan! What did you do to him?"
Jowan was tight-lipped, partially healing his own forearm. That spell had really worked well, and he was not at all tired. Was this old Avernus' potion, or his improving magical ability? "I wanted him to stop. I just wanted him to stop right away!"
Hakan grunted weakly, leaning against a wall. "Good on you! I felt like I was being boiled like a nug!"
Anders frowned, but concentrated on rejuvenating Bronwyn. Her view on the matter was unequivocal.
"Anything goes with these people. They're dangerous, and we're going to put a stop to them. And now we've got a prisoner."
"He's pretty much out of it," Jowan said, "A broken jaw and a cracked skull."
"See that he doesn't die, and keep him unconscious until we have time for a chat," Bronwyn ordered. She found her canteen and took a long drink, trying to dilute the horrible taste in her mouth. "Let's check these rooms out."
Cathair slipped past her, right behind Zevran. The two of them paused and Cathair uttered a low cry. Impatient, Bronwyn pushed forward into the room. A bloody altar stood against the wall, framed by those odd, attenuated figures of Fade spirits. Then, over Zevran's shoulder, she saw the bodies on the floor.
"What is this?" Carver gasped, "Some sort of chapel?"
"Maker save us!" cried Leliana.
"Yes." Anders said, pushing forward and looking around the room in disgust. "It's some sort of chapel… to the nastiest spirits of the Fade. And they require sacrifices."
"There's no time to examine the room," Bronwyn said, her eyes sliding from the flayed body on the floor and the dismembered torso nearby. She had seen skinned carcasses of animals of course, but never a human. The face, its muscles revealed, was particularly disturbing. This had been a person.
"And there are the phylacteries, over there by the altar!" Morrigan declared, pointing to an elaborate stand. She was resolutely determined to show no distress at the sights in this room. To do so would be a weakness.
"It's not just blood magic," Jowan whispered to Bronwyn. "The Chantry talks about that all the time, but blood magic can have all sorts of uses. This is ritual Death Magic. It's powerful, malignant stuff. Rituals are also frowned on by the Chantry, unless they're the one doing them. They take time to set up, but you can do amazing things with rituals..."
"Later," Bronwyn replied softly. "Tell me all about it later, Jowan. Right now we have to survive this. This is monstrous, and from the looks of things, it has been going on for a long time."
She tugged on Carver, who was still staring at the skinned corpse in horror.
"This wasn't the darkspawn." he whispered. "Men did this."
There was a great deal more to explore. The room at the far end was a dormitory and scriptorium. The bunks were clean and neatly made with good blankets. Diligent pupils were pursuing their studies here, for on the writing desks were notes in progress. Life was going on, in this underground palace of horrors.
The corridor took a sharp turn and Leliana moved forward cautiously, finding a pressure trap to disarm under a thick silk carpet. This…compound... was a good description…had elaborate defenses that could be armed at a touch. Bronwyn hoped they found all these traps before setting them off.
A door led from the handsomely planked and carpeted portion of the building to a somewhat ruder structure. Here the floor was fitted stone, though the walls were still plastered and the ceiling coffered. More fine rugs lined the way, no doubt to muffle the noise of booted feet. A L-shaped corridor led around a bend. Leliana and Zevran searched for traps. Cathair watched them carefully, wanting to learn this new skill.
Ahead, they could hear alarms and raised voices, and startlingly, the excited barking of dogs. Scout lifted his ears, but Bronwyn gave him a stern look. There was no need to reveal their numbers and kind to the enemy.
They eventually discovered that the enemy had three dogs: sturdy, loyal, and strong mabaris. It was cruelly sad to put them down, but the beasts were all too willing to fight for their masters. There were more traps, and a barricaded inner hall that the mages and archers cleared with grinding patience.
High yips burst from a side room that reeked of dog. Scout dashed away to see, and Bronwyn chased him, muttering curses. The kennel, of course. One of the cages was full of mabari pups: four in all, from their size newly weaned but still in the adorably fluffy stage. Scout barked them into quivering submission, though they whimpered for their dam, now dead in the corridor of traps. More plunder, Bronwyn thought, and more valuable than anyone not Fereldan could guess. Carver was already grinning goofily at the pups.
"Later," Leliana said, pulling him away.
Nor was that the end: they fought their way through a storeroom, and then found themselves in a long practice room, also barricaded and well-defended by blood mages and what could only be Tevinter soldiers. These Tevinters shouted orders and replies back and forth in their own tongue: too fast for their own mages to understand them. This room really was as big as the Warden's hall: long enough and high enough for arms and archery practice. A large number of weapons and armor stands were ranged along the walls. The mages there were prepared, and not shy about using fireballs, even though they were underground in a wooden building. Either they were suicidal or supremely confident. it was very satisfying to see the looks of surprise and dismay on their faces as they died.
Another large room followed: and this was like a tavern or a private club, a big comfortable room with a long bar and barrels of ale; with tables and games and musical instruments, and pictures of lovely naked elves. Bronwyn realized with a start that all their enemies so far had been man. There were no enemy women in the compound at all. Still, this place was quite the home away from home, furnished as well as many a nobleman's mansion. A comfortably cushioned settee stood before a big fireplace. Like some other parts of the compound, it had a fine planked floor. At the end of the room were two doors. The door to the left was locked, but Zevran had it open in trice.
This empty room was the large and handsomely appointed bedchamber of a very wealthy man. The bed was wide and made up with silk sheets. The elegant desk of northern spicewood had a locked drawer. There was no time to go through it now, but Bronwyn promised herself a long examination of any documents here.
"A potions cabinet!" Anders said, very eagerly pointing out a curious piece of furniture in a corner. It had at least sixty small drawers, presumably for storing herbs and minerals. It too was locked.
"It's almost like a secret Circle," Jowan muttered, reading over some notes left on the bed. "They're studying, doing research, while they do...everything else."
"Better food here than our Circle," Anders snorted, "and far plusher accommodations."
"If you don't object to a spot of flaying and dismemberment," Carver snapped.
"Let's go," Bronwyn said, thinking longingly of the secrets to be discovered here, "We still haven't met whoever is in charge of this enterprise."
"I bet he's slimy," Carver said, "I bet he's slimy and he has a goatee. I'll bet anything he does."
"Shhhhh..."
Zevran put his ear to the door at the end of the room.
"Silence. I hear nothing. This definitely does not lead to outside."
It was an small, carpeted anteroom. Praying that the door leading from it was the last, Bronwyn pushed it open. Brilliant candlelight made her blink. This room was also set for a feast, though a grander one than in the guard's mess room, and it was adorned with arcane statues and symbols/ A long table shone with silver and gold. Bronwyn felt like a country bumpkin, intruding on a nobleman's feast. And the host in question... was, indeed, a man with a goatee. He looked them in indignant contempt, already lifting his staff.
"I know not how you have survived thus far, but you shall not...survive...this!"
Her own mages began casting, trying to disrupt the man's massive curse. Meanwhile his lackeys launched an attack: a Qunari, another big Tevinter, and a young mage. The Wardens broke into smaller teams and set about dividing and conquering. The warriors were strong but not as strong as dragonslayers. The young mage went down to the joint efforts of Morrigan and Aveline.
"Don't kill him!" Bronwyn shouted.
A lightning storm erupted in their corner of the room by the door, and Bronwyn led her Wardens out of it at a run, rushing the bearded mage. A bubble of light closed in around him, protecting him from hostile magic. It did little, however, to protect him from edged weapons. The shining sphere thickened, and in response, Jowan pushed out a dark cloud of malevolent energy. Goatee was astonished and rather horrified, without time to effectively rearrange his plans. He was obviously too powerful and too dangerous to allow to live. He stumbled, stunned and white-eyed, and Bronwyn sheared his head off. The body collapsed to the floor, and the head rolled under the table. The man's magic evaporated slowly, leaving her weary and sick. And terribly hungry and thirsty. They must have been fighting non-stop for over an hour.
"They've got wine here," Soren remarked into the exhausted silence. "Looks like good stuff. They're all set up for a partly."
"And for rituals. Dangerous rituals," said Morrigan. "Spirit mirrors, demonic idols, defiled statues of ancient archons...and more phylacteries. Undoubtedly where the Chantry got the idea in the first place."
"And another door," Bronwyn said, trying not to sound exhausted. Maker, would this never be over?
This door, however was the way out. It led up a long flight of stairs and to a heavy, metal studded locked, barred, absolutely-the-last door. It opened out into a narrow alley, and stepping around a sheltering bit of masonry, Bronwyn found herself in Alewives Lane only yards from the docks. The smell of salt air blended with the odor of stale piss. The door they had emerged from would appear to the rest of the world to be a cellar door of a dockside tavern, The Condemned Man.
"All right," she said, "I know where I am, now. Carver, I want you to take a message to Teyrn Loghain. Get him here—only take him to the other entrance. I want him to see just how extensive this is. Let's go back downstairs and I'll write out something for for you."
Parchment and ink were not hard to find. Bronwyn swept silver spoons aside as she sat at the elaborate table to write to Loghain. The other Wardens explored the wonders of the room, some of them mightily impressed. Anders and Jowan tested the food and drink for poisons or potions. Morrigan, superficially blasé but bursting with curiosity, focused on the magical elements here.
"These phylacteries appear to be labelled," she said, "and here is a fine one." She pointed to a vessel of swirled and molded glass. "A line is through the name, indicating, perhaps, that the donor is dead. As indeed he is, for the name is Rendon Howe."
They barred the door to the dockside, briefly stuffed themselves with the food and drink that the mages had determined was safe, and then began a systematic search of the compound. Carver and Aveline set off to find Loghain. It would no doubt be some time before he and his guard arrived, but they had plenty to do.
Bronwyn decided that their prisoners could sleep for a bit longer. She wanted to get a better handle on what was here.
Their three mages could all read the Tevinter script. In the grand… council chamber… Bronwyn called it mentally, Jowan acted as scribe, noting down the names as Anders and Morrigan read them off. It was a frightening assemblage of important figures, along with other people whose names Bronwyn did not recognize at all. Some people were dead, and lined out, and those phylacteries were kept on a separate shelf. Jowan explained that the blood of the dead could still be used for some rituals, such as summonings.
The Tevinters, perhaps by bribing or bullying servants, had somehow gathered blood from Arl Urien and his son Vaughan, from the commander of the city guard and a number of his lieutenants, from priests and Templars, from the now deceased Bann Ceorlic and his surviving widow Lady Rosalyn, from a number of minor banns from the Bannorn. And of course from Rendon Howe.
To what extent were these secretive people, with their human sacrifices and blood magic, culpable in the massacre of her family? Bronwyn feared that the whole story was forever beyond her reach. Had they twisted Howe to their own ends, knowing that her father's agents would have warned him about the slave trade? Or had the seeds of treachery and murder always been there? Had the murder of her family anything to do with these people at all, or was that Rendon Howe's independent nastiness?
Perhaps they despised Fereldan barbarians so entirely that they simply did not care about consequences. Perhaps they were here only to grab what they could, not troubling themselves to know much about the country, other than the best way to rape it.
Morrigan and Anders went to the blood chapel to decipher the names on the phylacteries there. Bronwyn, with the help of Jowan and Leliana, set about rifling the leader's desk. Everyone else was given guard duty, either watching the prisoners or waiting for Loghain in the upper room. Anders was told to begin examining all the stored foodstuffs and the meal in the messroom, and see if it was fit to eat. If so, she would confiscate much of what they had found here.
"I'm surprised," she remarked, "that Howe's phylactery was here. Surely they could not control him from so far away as Denerim?"
"It doesn't work that way," Jowan tried to explain it to her, steepling his hands and moving into lecture mode. "Your blood is your blood. A blood mage can use your blood anywhere and it will affect you. Proximity doesn't much matter, though it's true that some spells work better if the mage casting has seen you and knows what you look like. I guess we're lucky these phylacteries weren't sent home to Tevinter. It's just like how the Chantry can use your phylactery in Denerim to find your location anywhere. Mind you, I would guess that the farther you are, the more general the direction it would give. Probably across the Waking Sea it would be too vague to be of use. But it would still indicate that, for example, you were alive somewhere in the Free Marches." He gave her a serious look. "However, if they were simply trying to make you amenable to suggestion, or make you sick, they could perform that magic anywhere."
Rather alarmed, she went on with her work. At least no one had found a phylactery with her own name on it.
As she pulled all the papers out of the desk and searched for secret drawers, she wondered if everyone stationed at the compound had been caught by her invasion. Perhaps some were running errands. It would be a good idea to keep watch on this place, and see who turned up.
Not only were there letters, notes, and obvious account books in Arcanum, the Tevinter language, they were also in some sort of shorthand code. Jowan thought he could unsort the matter in time, but the Tevinters had not wished to be obvious. The Wardens worked diligently, finding caches of coin and other treasure. Toliver brought them more food and drink. It was very good. After some time at this, Bronwyn heard a noise coming up the hall. Loghain sounded angry. He would not like her putting her life in danger a few days before their marriage.
"Maker's Breath!"
Jowan disappeared from the room at a run, leaving Bronwyn to her fate. Loghain stormed in, took her by the shoulders, and gave her a shake.
"You could have been killed!"
"I'm perfectly all right," she insisted, giving him a smiling kiss.
She made light of her danger and her injuries, since they were healed and invisible now. Before Loghain could draw breath for another attack, Hakan arrived with the news that their prisoners were awakening. Jowan was waiting anxiously on the fringes of the group, scuttling along at Bronwyn's side, wanting to tell her how to protect herself.
"The soldier is no trouble, now that he's bound. It's the mage I'm worried about. We can drain the his mana. In fact, it's the only safe thing to do. He doesn't need a staff, or even his hands untied. He could bite his tongue and if he drew blood, he'd have something to work with. You need to be careful, Bron…er, Commander."
The soldier grinned at them insolently, and pretending not to speak the King's Tongue, though that was a lie, since he had cursed them fluently when they were fighting. He was sent to Fort Drakon, and Bronwyn did not envy him his fate there. They would get quite a bit out of him eventually, she believed, but it would take time. And then he would certainly be executed. She was, for obvious reasons, not going to conscript him.
The youngish mage, whose name was Justin, was another matter. He talked volubly in Arcanum, as soon as Jowan told him that the Blood-Boiling curse was no secret to him and that he, Jowan, was prepared to use it. He was too alien for Bronwyn to comprehend, and his poor grasp of a mutual language made it difficult to find common ground. What Jowan did express to her was the fellow's feeling that he had fallen off the edge of the civilized world. This was supposed to be a lark, a year of adventure and apprenticeship among the barbarians that would be useful in making his way back home in proper society.
He could tell them that the Tevinters had been established here for the past fifteen years. Loghain, outwardly impassive, was shocked at the news. He wanted to know how all this—he gestured around him—had been paid for, and was told that after the initial investment, it had paid for itself. Many people came to Ferelden: travelers from foreign lands; lads and lasses fresh from the countryside, hoping to make their fortune; deserters from the army hiding in Ferelden's largest city. Approached the right way, they could be duped and lured away. The unpromising goods were used to keep the Tevinter's magic strong; and the likely specimens stowed aboard one of the Tevinter's ships. A ship was always at hand, since there was, after all, a Blight in Ferelden, and the Tevinters might need a means of escape. When a ship was filled with cargo, it was sent home. A highly profitable trade had been going on for many years. After a glare from Loghain, he divulged the name of a fine ship currently riding at anchor in the harbor, and of its captain, an "enthralled" Marcher from Kirkwall.
The Blight, of course, had provided the Tevinters with an unparalleled opportunity. There would be refugees, displaced persons—whole families—who would be most vulnerable. Magisters Caladrius and Magorian, working together, had raised the stakes considerably, obtaining at great risk phylacteries not just of harbor captains and inspectors and city guards, but of noblemen. Their analysis of the high noblemen indicated that Rendon Howe was the most dissatisfied and volatile of the lot; the most vulnerable, if nudged, to break the bonds of law and custom. Arl Urien, too, was greedy and fond of intrigue. His son enjoyed harming elves. There was much to work with here. Blood was collected from shaving cuts, from wounds taken in the hunting field, sometimes from slipping into their rooms when they were sleeping off drunken bouts.
Loghain was tempted to beat the arrogant little twit bloody, but he was not worth his time. They continued the questioning. When pressed, Justin said that they had not quite expected Arl Rendon to lash out so violently against his overlord, but they were delighted to make use of it. Enslaving the entire Highever alienage and a good portion of the one in Denerim was a coup beyond all their hopes. All the Tevinters—everyone but the disposable thralls—would be made men for life. Justin spoke of the great wealth he himself had earned, and hinted—clumsily—that he would be willing to share it if the mighty Fereldan chief would look aside and let him go his way.
That insulting bit of condescension was met with a stony stare. Loghain then asked about the leader of the expedition—the one who had sailed from Amaranthine
They were told that yes, Caladrius had escaped Amaranthine just ahead of Fergus Cousland, and had sent a small ship to Denerim to apprise Magorian of his hasty departure. Yes, of course Caladrius would return, most probably in the spring. Or, if the voyage was particularly profitable and Caladrius had retired, another from the The Fereldan Venture Company would come in his place.
"He might be lying…" Bronwyn began, but Loghain silenced her, and pulled her out of the room with him.
"He might be lying," Loghain said softly, "Or he might be shamming ignorance of our language, looking for any advantage. He doesn't quite seemed to have grasped that he's going to be executed for his crimes. He doesn't quite grasp that he's committed any crimes, for that matter."
He would be a very dangerous prisoner, in Jowan's opinion, and it was best to get the most from him now, execute him, and rely on the papers to tell the rest.
"I notice that you're not raising the issue of conscription," Loghain remarked.
Bronwyn thought of the flayed corpse in the bloody chapel. She shuddered. "Not for anything!"
They had Jowan interview him alone, listening outside with Anders. Most the conversation ended up being about the minutiae of spells and how the Tevinters went about disposing of the bodies of their victims. Most of the time, bodies and body parts were secreted in barrels, which were then dumped out to sea in the offshore current. Justin had no idea what had become of the family who had been living on the ground floor of the entry. People were allowed to live there from time to time for verisimilitude, and if they grew too curious they were escorted into the compound and put to good use before they were eliminated or taken to be sold. Occasionally residents of upper stories met the same fate.
It appeared that the early morning attack had served its purpose in capturing all the important members of the coven—above all, all the mages. A few enthralled servants and some of their contacts were roaming free. With the destruction of their phylacteries, they would revert back to "normal"—whatever that was—and either wander away or seek vengeance.
To Bronwyn, the realization of the extent to which a foreign power had infiltrated Ferelden was in every way horrible. Orlais had always been the enemy, but it was rather frightening to learn that there was another, secret foe lurking behind the scenes. She had been naive to think that politics and commercial rivalry stopped for a Blight; that the nations of Thedas would unite against a common threat. The Tevinters clearly could not care less if Ferelden was destroyed, as long as they could steal people's minds and reap the rewards of their vile slave trade. The Crows, for that matter, had not scrupled to attack a Grey Warden, and the Orlesians were clearly as hostile as ever, though the hostility was masked. like an Orlesian bard, with courtly manners.
Father had warned her about this, one day when she had asked if some of the Marcher cities were Ferelden's "friends."
He had made her stand right in front of him while he stared her in the eye, and he had dismissed such a foolish notion.
"Nations have no 'friends,' pup. They may have allies, but each nation has a secret life of its own: its own goals, aspirations; its own prejudices and its own values. And they have them all the time. While you are engaged with enemy, another nation uses your distraction to gain what it wants, whether that means stabbing you in the back or not."
"But wouldn't that be dishonorable, Father?"
"The honor of a nation is to succeed, pup. And to survive. Life is not some moral practice yard where you exercise your personal virtue. A leader owes it to his people to keep them alive and well. Smile at your rivals, because it confuses them, but do not be deceived when they smile back."
Loghain was not smiling at the mage. He had got what he deemed of value from him, and wanted to move on.
"Leave us, Warden," he said to Jowan. Jowan glanced at Bronwyn, and when she gave him a slight nod, he bowed and hurried from the room.
Without giving the Tevinter mage time to be terrified and thus lash out, Loghain quietly dispatched him with a dagger. The young man had only time for a disbelieving, high-pitched squeal before he stretched out on the floor. Bronwyn grimaced, not much pitying a professional slaver, torturer, and murderer, but tired of death.
"I'll assign some guards here," Loghain said thoughtfully, quite unaffected by killing the mage. "They'll arrest anyone who seeks entrance. And we'll want to translate all the papers. I'll have some wagons brought so we can clean the place out: bodies and plunder both. I'll lead a party to that ship the mage told us about. There might be captives there."
"We need to find out who all the people named on the phylacteries are," Bronwyn added. In fact, some of her people had recognized additional names already. Toliver knew the name of the owner of The Condemned Man. That name on a phylactery label explained why the man might be complacent about the entrance to a den of blood mages located in a side door of his establishment.
"And we need to do something about these!" Carver appeared at the doorway, giving Loghain a cheeky half bow. Loghain was in no mood to be offended, since four puppies trotted into the room, sniffing. They were curious about the dead body, but Scout herded them away, toward Bronwyn and Loghain.
"They had trained mabaris to serve them?" Loghain asked, taut with anger. The boldest of the puppies came up to him, pawing at his knee.
Bronwyn smiled faintly at the sight. "I suppose it's not surprising. After all, according the story, Tevinter mages bred them originally, but the dogs met the Alamarri and defected to them!"
Scout seemed to have nothing against the innocent puppies. Carver said, "We had to kill three adult mabaris. These little fellows seem friendly enough."
"So they do," Loghain relented, gently picking up the intrepid puppy. "So they do."
Thanks to my reviewers: RakeeshJ4, anon, LadyoftheDrow, Nemrut, Oleander's One, EpitomyofShyness, Herebedragons66, Judy, MsBarrows, Zute, timunderwood9, truthrowan, Mike 3207, butterflygrrl, Verpine, KnighOfHolyLight, Rexiselic, Nonahtanha, Tsu Doh Nimh, Anime-StarWards-fan-zach, Storyteller44, amanda weber, Spoit0, Blinded in a bolthole, Guest, HalmVendrella, Girl-chama, Shakespira, Jenna53, Phygmalion, Tirion, darksky01, Josie Lange, JackOfBladesX, Costin, JOdel, Have Socks. Will Travel, Jygilagg, xxCaspa97XX, and mille libri.
I absolutely refuse to believe, despite canon's pronouncement, that Eleanor Cousland did not have a lady's maid. Right, I believe she got those braid buns perfectly symmetrical all by herself! No, really—it's absurd.
While the blood mage hideout is very much a sidequest, and gives the player no real rewards, I think it is incredibly ominous that this huge place is under Denerim. I also refuse to believe that all those phylacteries were for street vendors and low-level guards.